


Something Wicked

by votsalot



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Attack on Titan AU, M/M, Salem Witch Hunts AU, eruri - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:39:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1536227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/votsalot/pseuds/votsalot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is easy for people to forget where beginnings come from. Often such points in time become muddled with hearsay. Bits and pieces of different stories lumped and woven together in the slapdash manner of everyday conversation between farmers and bakers, midwives and masons. The core of these tales are an amalgam of accounts; a hybrid between fantasy and the actual occurrences which inspired them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Forewarning, the language used in this story is…inaccurate to the time period, to put it lightly. And some of the historical things may be more or less dubious, but I researched as best I could. I figure if the essence of the story remains the same, no one will mind too much.

_Inspired by kisu-no-hi’s amazing response to the[Salem Witch prompt](http://kisu-no-hi.tumblr.com/post/83976210478/eruri-salem-massachusetts-witch-trials-circa-1690s) _

                It is easy for people to forget where beginnings come from. Often such points in time become muddled with hearsay. Bits and pieces of different stories lumped and woven together in the slapdash manner of everyday conversation between farmers and bakers, midwives and masons. The core of these tales are an amalgam of accounts; a hybrid between fantasy and the actual occurrences which inspired them.

                It started with the war, in 1698. King William’s War, it was later called. Rulers, an ocean and half the world away, sat on thrones of wood, velvet and gold. They thirsted for victory, and in sating themselves they were mindless of the consequences that would befall the common folk. Games of war weren't won with compassion, but with gold and the fortitude to make the decision the other man refused to consider.

                Refugees flew from their disturbed towns and molested homes. Seeking safety in large numbers, there were settlers where there was no room for them. The masses were evocative of Joseph and Mary, searching for a place to room and board. But, yet, there was no inn foreseeable in the immediate future of the wandering victims of the dueling monarchies. Amidst the search for space, there was the ever looming specter of starvation and disease. With tension drawn taught, ready to snap, the pillars of the community rarely came to general consensus.

                It was during this tumultuous time that Erwin first saw him.

                Small, dark, almost swarthy. He had the look of someone who worked outdoors. He was of a class not quite akin to Erwin’s own, that much was plain to see from his worn but obviously well-cared for shoes and his short hair. A forlorn looking, road-weary dog trotted at his heels. In fact, at first glance, it almost looked as if master and beast were human and animal interpretations of the other. Perhaps it was their similar coloring, or their obvious homelessness. Then, quick as they’d come, they were gone.

                It was easy to pick out the numerous refugees from among the surrounding pool of people, all of whom Erwin had known his entire life. Either by sight or by name, he knew them. He watched from the window of the shop and the adjacent open door, as was his habit. But only between taking stores into account, balancing sums, and putting together small articles for the shop’s bi-weekly newsletter. Naturally. 

                The man faded from Erwin’s mind, eventually. The curiosity of his presence in Salem was nonexistent as recently all new persons came to town on the pretext of survival. Erwin imagined him, as he did many others, continuing on to the next town. In Erwin’s mind, the dog slugged along like a reluctant afterthought behind his diminutive owner. No, the man did not look like someone who would be staying at all.

                Erwin let out a long, tired breath and returned to filling out an order slip for wool, and another for flax. He fully expected to never see him again.

* * *

 

                The following two weeks passed quickly. Small increments of time always seem to slip away faster than their larger counterparts, for although the weeks were over before they’d begun, the hours that constituted the days trickled by as slowly as the lazy stream that had run behind Erwin’s childhood home.

                Erwin had already forgotten the small man, having managed to re-immerse himself in his daily duties. There were deadlines to meet, orders to fulfill, and it was hard enough doing these things with so many basic goods in short supply. He needed to reapply for his business permit. He needed to make sure he was still on good terms with all his suppliers. With some residing at the edge of town, and some at the other end of the colony of Massachusetts, it was difficult. It was exhausting, mentally-taxing work he questioned himself of pursuing. By the end of the day the side of his right hand was ink smeared, staining under his nails and inevitably his sleeve. No matter how much he blotted the paper between paragraphs.

                Come noon, a slightly overcast but nevertheless warm day in late May, it was an unexpected visit which jolted him out of his overworked stupor. He was just signing off on a small but expensive shipment of foreign seeds, coming from the ports of Boston, when the sound of footfalls on the wooden floor of the shop alerted him to the presence of a customer.

                He looked up expecting one of his regulars and was oddly, pleasantly shocked to see the man from two weeks ago. Though Erwin had only gotten a passing glimpse, the fact that the man from two weeks ago and the one standing before him were the same person was indisputable. He approached Erwin’s two-in-one counter and desk with a quiet confidence in his step Erwin could only contrastingly describe as languid.

                “Good afternoon,” he greeted, as he did everyone who stopped inside.

                The man stopped only once he reached the counter, practically brushing against the polished and lacquered wood. After giving Erwin what looked like a thorough visual once-over, he help up a slightly crumpled pamphlet.

                 “This come from here?”

The man’s brusque voice held a slight accentual difference than those who lived in Salem; he sounded, if anything, more northern.

Erwin brushed off the misstep in courtesy with ease, reaching to take the pamphlet from the stranger’s short but thin fingers. He took care to smooth it out on the counter before looking too close.  When he did, sure enough, Outpost was there, printed in slightly smudged ink across the top, underneath a paper rendition of the sign which hung outside his door.

                He looked the other man in the eye, extending a hand in greeting.

                “Yes, it did. Erwin Smith,” he introduced himself, taking the man’s cautiously offered appendage. “I’m the editor.”

                His newsletter, _Outpost_ , was a collection of things. It had started as a pet project and had evolved into a way to grant, to those with few pences to spare, access a versatile ink-and-paper outlet. The end result was a homely but comforting mish mash of things which varied from week to week and sometimes didn’t have any purpose at all. In its pages lay homespun poetry, tips, help wanted ads, people looking to sell goods or services, ads for local businesses, and public interest columns. Essentially, anything anyone would pay him to print, providing the material wasn't too questionable or explicit. Erwin spent much of his spare time editing clumsily spelled words and laying the letters out on the printing press, an old and cranky machine he stored in the back room.

He enjoyed distributing it. Not only was it a cheaper way for people to receive consistently interesting and relevant content than the other papers in Salem, but it also served as advertising on the sly. Advertising other people paid him to receive. One of his more intelligent accomplishments.

                “Levi,” the other man, now named, slipped his hand out of Erwin’s as soon as his half of the introduction was complete.          

Erwin raised his eyebrows congenially. “Would you like to submit something? Half a page is a quarter pence.”

                Levi gave Erwin a look that seemed to suggest he hadn’t even considered that possibility, and that no, he most definitely would not be putting anything in _Outpost_.

“I can publish you anonymously if you prefer?” he tried, leaning down and resting his elbows on the counter.

                From this vantage point, he and Levi were at just about eye level.

                Levi scowled. “I’m just here for seeds.”

                Erwin nodded and turned to the cabinet which stood directly behind him, opening the old doors with a slight squeak of the hinge.

                “Which ones?” he asked, taking into visual account what he had in stock.

                “Basil, blackberry, chamomile, feverfew, and foxglove,” the list sounded rehearsed.

                “…Ah…,” Erwin only had a scant amount of basil, he’d been out of chamomile in weeks, and he’d never so much as seen feverfew or foxglove. At least not in a store like his. Such strange requests!

                He turned his head slightly to look at Levi, who at this point was beginning to exude the impatient sort of energy people always acquire when something they want is taking too long.

                “All I have is basil,” he said apologetically, measuring out the last of the seeds and depositing them into a small reusable pouch.

                “I think you’d have better luck looking for what you need in the woods. Or maybe a medicinal practice,” he handed the bag over the counter, and Levi took it more gently than Erwin would have warranted.

                “Would I come here if I could get them in the woods? For free?” Levi pulled an old coin purse from what seemed like thin air, but what must have been a concealed pocket. “How much?”

                “Two pence.”

                “…”

                “The market’s tight right now. Shipping lanes are closed and trade routes are broken. If you come back in a month or so, I might have some more at a lower price.”

                Levi blinked once, slowly, exasperated, then snapped open the coin purse and dropped two pence on the counter.

                “Come back again, soon,” Erwin said quietly as the rather unsatisfied customer hurriedly retreated from the store without any formal goodbye other than the pocketing of his purchase. From where he was standing, he watched Levi untether and mount a black horse of indeterminate breed.

                With a light flick of the reins, the animal was off. Or at least, there had to have been. A flick of the reins, that is. For from what Erwin could see it was almost as if the animal had started slowly off down the street of its own accord, rider swaying gently in rhythm with its loping walk.

                Strange, Erwin thought to himself. Very strange, indeed.


End file.
